Drop the word I’m meant to use to coax the pretty waiter from his restaurant, though he’s bad news and a cartoon of every trope the trophy world’s designed to want. They say I am a spoiled thing. I keep my scar out on my head and always come when I am told to go. I leave my neighbors scary notes, which I don’t sign while they’re at work, and I don’t listen when he tries to talk. I stare at his flapping jaw. I wanna want him so bad, but I don’t recognize the charms that he has, ‘cause my heart looks in on itself and he’d be better loved by somebody else who cares about a face. Like a robot who inflicts one shot then starts to wheel away despite his protocol. I got a hook in the conversation, which I played for meaty bait, though it was watered down. They say I am a spoiled mess. I never fold up what should fold and shine much better in my house alone. The charts predict a brother kid, but doctors say I need a sis that I can pawn off to my spiral shell and tie to my cord as well. I wanna want her so bad, but I don’t recognize the charms that she has, ‘cause my heart looks in on itself and any friend I make’s a stagehand at best to help along the play. Fights first and facts last. These lads have the asses for TV. But who’s taking my picture? They better be taking it only of me. I wanna want him so bad, but I don’t recognize the charms that he has. I hear he's pretty and well, but I don’t get aroused. I wanna want that so bad, but I don’t recognize the charms that I have, ‘cause my heart looks in on itself. That’s why the beacon’s burnt.
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